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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613564">On the Rocks - Part II</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox'>electricshoebox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>There in Black and White [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Noir, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Getting Back Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Night Club Singer Deacon, Post-Break Up, Private Investigator MacCready, Private Investigators, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smoking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:00:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And while the spotlight makes shadows of the crowd and burns colors on his eyes, he’s only this: Deacon, the singer, the man, the powder-smooth, forgettable face. The safest he ever feels — the most hidden he’s ever been — is center stage and under the brightest light in the club. Or it was. Until his back hit the sheets of a lumpy mattress in the second floor apartment of a man he thought he wouldn’t need. And he forgot how to get back up again.</i>
</p><p>Three months ago, Deacon thought MacCready had walked out of his life for good. But when he comes back one rainy night with a new job and an old smile, Deacon realizes he's not so easy to forget.</p><p>Part II of the DeaCready Noir-Inspired AU no one asked for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>There in Black and White [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On the Rocks - Part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here we go, Deacon's side of the AU. This part was originally inspired by the "First 'I Love You'" prompt for Fluffy February, but then it took a hard (heh) turn straight into smut territory. This was also motivated by me taking absolutely any excuse to write Glory, or Glory and Deacon's friendship. I'll reiterate this is a noir-inspired AU, meaning I didn't hold myself to strict imitation, just emulation. </p><p>My thanks as always to <b>serenityfails</b> for betaing, and especially for helping me prune the end.</p><p>Warnings: brief, vague descriptions of violence, recreational drinking/smoking, and explicit, consensual sex.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the knock comes on Deacon’s door this time, he doesn’t ask who it is. He knows, even before it gets elbowed open on its own. </p><p>Glory cradles two shot glasses between her fingers as she kicks the door shut again. She leans back against it for a moment and catches Deacon’s eye in the dressing table mirror as he finishes tugging his wig back on. She’s wearing the kind of expression that means she has something to say that’s going to give Deacon heartburn. She sets one of the glasses down near his wrist, and something clear sloshes in it, because sure, he might as well fight fire with fire.</p><p>“Okay,” she says, holding the other glass up in front of her. “You’re going to drink that. Then you’re going to promise not to do anything stupid. And then I’m going to tell you who I just saw at the bar.” </p><p>Deacon quirks his lips. “He already paid his respects.” </p><p>Glory stares at him for a moment. “…That’s why the door was locked when I — which means you’ve already done something stupid.” </p><p>She knocks back the shot and then grabs his before he can reach for it and swallows that, too. </p><p>“Hey!” </p><p>“Nope, I’m going to need it, now,” she says. She drops both glasses on the edge of the table and jabs a finger at him. “So let’s review: this is the lout that smashed your heart into the pavement like a cigarette butt—”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks, I was there.”</p><p>“And then it took me three weeks to get you to stop moping around until last call every night—”</p><p>“Do we have to do the Greatest Hits of Deacon’s Heartbreak?” </p><p>“We do if you’re going to add another verse to this song.” Her mouth pinches in at the corners and she steps back, folding her arms across her chest. The sleeves of her white button-up pull tight where the muscle thickens, her bowtie crooking askew at her throat. She sighs. “D-Man, he ran across the country just to—”</p><p>“He didn’t.”</p><p>She frowns. “Yes, he did.”</p><p>“I thought he did. He said… well. You all heard what he said.” Deacon turns back toward the mirror. He pulls one of the compacts from the collection in front of him, his knuckles bumping the little wooden soldier sitting above them. He watches it wobble, and feels something stick in his throat. He opens the compact. “But he says now that he never left. He got a job with Nick Valentine.” </p><p>Glory’s frown hardens. “So he’s been here all this time and <i>now</i> he drags himself in?” </p><p>Deacon glances at her as he pulls a powder brush from the cup in the corner. “Well, which is it, Glory? Do you want him here or not?” </p><p>“You don’t want to know where I want him.” </p><p>Deacon snorts and leans closer to the mirror. He swipes powder along a sweat-slick spot on his forehead that catches the overhead light. He hears Glory shift her feet, and then she finally says, “Look, I just — don’t want you getting hurt again.” </p><p>Deacon’s hand stills. He lowers the brush and looks over. She glances up and then shifts her shoulders and frowns at the costume rack against the back wall. “And I don’t want to be on mop duty when it happens.”</p><p>Deacon chuckles. “That’s more like it. Don’t worry. I’ll go cry on Drummer Boy’s shoulder this time.” </p><p>Glory snorts as she pushes back off the wall, and leans over his shoulder to check the slick in her hair. She taps a few spots near her temples and then sighs, straightening. “Rather you didn’t cry at all.” </p><p>He purses his lips into a smile in the mirror. She turns up the corner of her mouth in answer. Then she bumps his shoulder with her hip, making the powder brush jerk across his cheek. He glares, and she laughs. </p><p>“He’s got a case Valentine wants help with,” Deacon says as he quickly smooths the line back into his skin. </p><p>“Sure, that’s what they all say.” </p><p>He chuckles again. “No, really. I’m gonna at least hear him out.” </p><p>She just shakes her head. She smooths her hand down over her slacks and then grabs the shot glasses. “We’re on in five.” </p><p>“Roger.” </p><p>The door clicks shut behind her. Deacon lets out a breath, lowering the brush again. He sets it back in the cup, and closes the compact. His gaze falls on the soldier again, following the rounded edge of its helmet and the block line of its arm. Even now, it makes his breath snag and stutter in his throat to think of the morning MacCready gave it to him, and the night he tried to give it back. It had stared up at him every night since, watching him at the corner of his mirror, a bittersweet reminder it ached to look at and stung to ignore. </p><p><i>Throw it away</i>, he’d told himself. Too many times to count.</p><p>He’d never counted hope among his vices. But then, he hadn’t had love to put it on the list, either. Not in a long time. Not since before he found his way into the electric shadows of the big city that keeps trying to swallow him whole. </p><p>His chair stutters back against the old wood floor. He plucks his blazer off the back by the scruff and buttons it tight over the wrinkles in his shirt. He checks the mirror again, and licks his thumb to slick down a loose hair at the crown of his wig. He checks the rose at his breast, pushing lightly at petals the color of words he only sings, and never says. He opens the door.</p><p>This is the easy part. Curling his hand around the microphone pole and stripping his thoughts to the basics: sight, sound, and sweat. He swings his legs and sings his words and smiles like he means them all. The lie was only ever that he didn’t. It’s a role he’s played so long he could sleep through the steps. And while the spotlight makes shadows of the crowd and burns colors on his eyes, he’s only this: Deacon, the singer, the man, the powder-smooth, forgettable face. The safest he ever feels — the most hidden he’s ever been — is center stage and under the brightest light in the club.</p><p>Or it was. Until his back hit the sheets of a lumpy mattress in the second floor apartment of a man he thought he wouldn’t need. And he forgot how to get back up again. </p><p>He’s no stranger to strangers. Smoky smiles, liquor-slick, and sex in dark corners without names. And then it’s home to a catacomb under a cathedral, where he’s Deacon, the criminal, the agent, the spy. The man wanted for murders no one remembers in a town just far enough south to catch all of the city’s smog and none of its attention. The man wanted for thefts that should be kidnappings and shouldn’t be crimes at all. The man wanted for a future he can’t have with a man whose life he could risk just by loving him. </p><p>Or maybe he should strike that last one off the list. He doesn’t know what MacCready wants, now.</p><p>He can’t see the bar from the stage, not while the spotlight holds him. So he doesn’t look. But one look had been enough already. One look had been more than he ever thought he’d get again.</p><p>Deacon closes his eyes beneath his shades and thinks of MacCready as he sings. He thinks of him standing in the dressing room doorway, hat in hand. He’d slicked his hair back the way he always used to, the way Glory does, but thicker than hers, and flattened at the temples from his hat. He’d worn a trenchcoat, stormcloud grey and loose at the shoulders, a dark vest peeking out under the lapel. He’d looked nothing like Deacon expected, and everything like he still, desperately, wanted. Like he still… he still… </p><p>He still remembers every detail of that first morning he stayed. It’s suspended there, behind his eyelids, like stained glass: sun-bright, sacred, and untouched. He can still feel the wooden soldier warm between their palms, held to his chest with his fingers between MacCready’s as he hid a kiss in MacCready’s hair. He can still hear MacCready’s promise, whispered against his shoulder. “I’m going to do better. I’m going to be better.”</p><p>Deacon had rolled him over, set the soldier on the nightstand like it was made of crystal, and kissed his answer into MacCready’s sternum, his stomach, his thighs. MacCready had looked at him like he had words of his own to say. Deacon never gave him the chance.</p><p>The Institute never gave them the chance. </p><p>He strolls to the bar after his set, avoiding Glory’s eyes. He can feel her gaze until he turns the corner. He finds MacCready tucked into the furthest booth against the wall, whiskey waiting in two glasses. When he sees Deacon, his eyes soften and stick, watching him until he sits. No one else is sitting near them. He’s given Deacon the seat that will let him face the wall, keep his voice from carrying back over the bar, keep his face hidden. He’s given it thought. Something tugs a little under Deacon’s ribs, so he tugs the whiskey to his lips, buying time to find something to say. </p><p>MacCready, as always, beats him to the punch. “You looked good up there, Deacon.” </p><p>“You look good down here.” God dammit. </p><p>But it gets him a little smile that makes his arms tingle. He shoves his hand into his pocket to find his cigarettes and put one in his mouth before he says something else stupid. Deacon stills when MacCready reaches across the table to light it for him, and then slowly leans down to catch the flame. </p><p>“So,” he says as MacCready lights a cigarette of his own, “P. I., huh? How’d you swing that gig?” </p><p>MacCready takes a drag. His eyes turn distant under the haze. “You remember, uh… about Lucy? And Duncan?” </p><p>That feeling tugs under Deacon’s ribs again. “Of course.”</p><p>MacCready’s eyes snap back to him, bright with surprise. Quietly, he echoes, “Of course…” He shakes his head a little, then clears his throat and looks away again. “Nick’s the one that got the evidence for me. That proved that Hallucigen was dumping on our land, and got Duncan sick, and had Lucy… killed.”</p><p>“Good old Valentine,” Deacon says, grabbing his glass so he doesn’t grab MacCready’s hand. </p><p>“He offered me a job afterward. Told me I’d do well,” MacCready says. “I told him I’d think about it.” </p><p>Deacon cracks a smile. He draws the cigarette back. Now that he and Mags are off for the night, they’re piping records through the speakers, and Deacon hears the music swell over the thinning crowd. Glasses clink softly at the bar behind him. Deacon taps ash into the tray.</p><p>“So, MacCready, P. I., how can I help solve the case?”</p><p>MacCready straightens a little. “It’s… like I said. Kidnapping. Odd one.”</p><p>“My favorite kind,” Deacon says, and MacCready quirks his lips. </p><p>“It’s—” he starts, then frowns. He darts a glance around the bar, then lowers his voice. “In your line of work, how often do you see kids?” </p><p>“Kids?” Deacon furrows his brow.</p><p>“Yeah.” MacCready takes another drag. “Young ones. Nine, ten.” </p><p>“Never.”</p><p>MacCready nods as the smoke curls from his lips. He sighs. “Yeah, that’s what we figured.” </p><p>“Child kidnappings… are usually more, uh, your old line of work,” Deacon says carefully.</p><p>MacCready curls his lip, but he doesn’t look upset. “Yeah, that’s what I said, but the M.O. doesn’t fit.”</p><p>“Oh, no?”</p><p>MacCready shakes his head. “Suburban family. Sanctuary Hills neighborhood.”</p><p>Deacon tips his head back and forth. “Unusual, that far to the edge of the city, but even the nice families get chem habits and gambling debts.”</p><p>“Yeah, but not this one,” MacCready says around a mouthful of whiskey. The ice shifts in the glass. “Wife’s a lawyer. Husband’s military. No casinos, no shady loans, no debts, clean records. We only got their word on the chems, but… frankly, I don’t see it. And when the—”</p><p>He stops, and throws another glance around the bar. He leans forward a little. “When it’s a shake down? Gunners leave no trace. They get invited in, or they threaten until they do. No breaking and entering. Clean.” </p><p>“And this wasn’t?” </p><p>“Started that way. A guy showed up with two lackeys, gave some bullshit story about military home inspection. Husband saw right through it, told him to take a hike. So they kicked the door down. The guy kept the parents at gunpoint while he sent his pals down the hall for the kid. Husband tries to fight back, wrestle the gun away, nearly gets shot for it. Goon squad grabs the kid and they book it. By the time the parents got to the sidewalk, the street was empty.” </p><p>Deacon takes a long drag. “Did they give descriptions?”</p><p>“Ring leader was wearing formal military dress, plenty of pins, but no name. Tipped the husband off right away. But the other two were… weird, they said.”</p><p>“Weird how?”</p><p>“Dressed all in black leather. Long coats. Sunglasses, even though it was evening.” </p><p>Cold dread washes through Deacon like car tires hitting a puddle on the avenue. His eyes flick up under his shades. He lowers the cigarette. “Shit.”</p><p>MacCready looks up. “You know them?”</p><p>“Not the ring leader, but the other two… those are coursers.” Deacon grabs his whiskey and drains it.</p><p>“What?” </p><p>Deacon sets the glass down. He doesn’t dare to turn his head. “We still clear?”</p><p>MacCready surveys the bar. “No one’s close. No one’s looking.”</p><p>Deacon puffs on the cigarette. “Coursers are the Institute’s… enforcers. They’re killing machines. Faster than any human. Stronger.” He raises his eyes to meet MacCready’s over the rim of his shades. “The night they came for us? They only sent two. They killed sixteen of us.”</p><p>MacCready takes a sharp breath. His eyes widen. After a moment, he says, “Deacon… I’m sorry.”</p><p>Deacon nods, dropping his gaze. “It was a bad night.”</p><p>“Not just — not just for that.” </p><p>Deacon freezes, his eyes still on the table. After a moment, MacCready’s hand curls loose over his wrist.</p><p>“I’ve thought about that night every day,” he says softly. “Wishing I could just… God, I never should’ve… I didn’t get it. What you were up against.”</p><p>Deacon watches his shadow on the table as he shakes his head. The ashtray clinks quietly, and then a second hand joins the first. “I was hurt. I was stupid. And when I got to the train station, I couldn’t even make it off the curb.” Deacon hears him swallow, but still can’t seem to look up from their hands. “If you can’t — forgive what happened, I get it. But I should’ve said it the moment I saw you. That I’m sorry. That I was an idiot. That I still… that nothing’s changed.” </p><p>Deacon takes one last drag and stubs his cigarette into the tray. “You don’t know… how badly I wanted to say yes.” </p><p>
  <i>Let’s go. You and me.</i>
</p><p>MacCready’s breath catches. Deacon takes a deep breath of his own, and then lays his other hand over MacCready’s. “But it’s as dangerous as it ever was. I can’t — you have Duncan to worry about, and — MacCready, this case you’re talking about, you might be poking the hornet’s nest, here.”</p><p>“Then it sounds like I’m taking a risk either way,” MacCready says. His thumb slips under the cuff of Deacon’s shirt and strokes across his wrist.</p><p>Deacon wets his lips against the sudden dryness in his mouth. The bar has gone quieter still, the music slowing down as Deacon’s heart rate speeds up. He wonders if MacCready can feel it against the pad of his thumb.</p><p>Deacon finally raises his eyes. “I don’t know what I can give you, Bobby.” </p><p>MacCready meets his gaze, and then after a moment, gently pulls his hands free. “Look, I… this isn’t… I’m not asking you to choose. I won’t. I won’t do that to you again. I never should have. I — I didn't think you’d even want to see me, so if…” He sighs. “I’m not asking for anything. Just your forgiveness.”</p><p>A lump tightens in Deacon’s throat again. “You have it.”</p><p>MacCready gives him a smile that breaks his heart. He sips his whiskey, and they sit in silence for a few moments. Finally, Deacon clears his throat and says, “You, uh — your case, though. That’s — it definitely has all the trappings.”</p><p>“Right.” MacCready seems to shake out of his thoughts. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a notepad. He scribbles a few words. “Coursers — but you’ve never known them to take kids.” </p><p>“Or do house calls,” Deacon says. “Not like that.” </p><p>MacCready frowns. He scribbles another line.</p><p>“All right,” he says, pocketing the notepad again. “If you hear anything, or… think of anything else? The office is always open, and—” He hesitates, and then says, “—and so is my door.”</p><p>Deacon takes a shaky breath. “Bobby…” </p><p>MacCready’s gaze pins him to the booth. “I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore.” </p><p>Deacon presses his lips together. He nods. The corner of MacCready’s mouth lifts. He empties his glass, and then makes to stand.</p><p>“Bobby… please be careful.”</p><p>MacCready’s hand brushes his shoulder. “Good night, Deacon.” </p><p>Deacon lights another cigarette instead of watching him leave. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, how long his thoughts spin and spiral in on each other, a kaleidoscope of memory and fear and wishing, too many shapes to name. When Glory takes the seat across from him, the cigarette’s burned nearly to the tipping paper. </p><p>He looks up. She narrows her eyes.</p><p>“He apologized,” she says. It doesn’t sound like a question, but he nods. </p><p>She sits back. “You forgave him.”</p><p>He stubs out the cigarette, and nods again.</p><p>“You’re not coming home tonight.”</p><p>His eyes shoot up. She’s frowning at him, tilting her head at a little. He looks away again, spinning his empty glass. “I told him I didn’t know what I could give him.”</p><p>She sighs. “Deacon, you already gave him the only thing that matters.”</p><p>His brow bends. Her eyes dart to his chest, so he follows her gaze to the rose pinned at his breast, pinned right over his… Oh. </p><p>“Just don’t let him break it again,” she says quietly. She stands, and squeezes his arm too hard, and walks away. </p><p>An hour later, his collar soggy from the rain starting up again, his coat too thin to keep it out, he stands at MacCready’s door telling himself not to knock. Telling himself to go back downstairs, and get back in the cab. Telling himself he can’t take what he can’t give.</p><p>But Glory’s right. MacCready’s already got the one thing that matters.</p><p>Deacon knocks.</p><p>MacCready opens the door with a gun in his hand and his shirt undone from top to bottom, open over his undershirt. The vest is long gone, and his hair’s ruffled out of its combed-back coif, like he’s been running his hands through it. He stares at Deacon, and lowers the gun.</p><p>“Tell me to go,” Deacon says, his throat dry, as he pulls the sunglasses from his face. “Tell me I shouldn’t be here. Tell me to leave.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare,” MacCready says, grabbing the back of Deacon’s neck and yanking him in for a kiss.</p><p>Deacon kicks the door closed behind him, burying the shades in his pocket and fumbling to unbutton his coat as their mouths crush together. MacCready nips at his lip and then shoves him back against the door, his hands suddenly free enough to bat Deacon’s out of the way. Deacon wonders for a moment where the gun went, and then MacCready’s kissing him again, and nothing else in the world matters. </p><p>Deacon tilts his head, and MacCready lets out a noise that’s just low and grated enough to be a growl against his lips as he yanks at Deacon’s coat buttons. The sound sends a shiver through him, and as soon as they work the coat free of his arms, he grabs MacCready by the belt and drags him closer. MacCready sinks his teeth into Deacon’s lower lip again as he thumbs open Deacon’s blazer. He rolls the tip of his tongue over the bite, and Deacon groans, throwing the blazer toward the little table waiting behind them. Something knocks loose and clatters to the floor. MacCready doesn’t even look back. He just catches Deacon’s lips between his again, splaying his hand over Deacon’s jaw.</p><p>Deacon’s never been kissed the way MacCready kisses him. And he’s been kissed plenty. He likes kissing. He likes the tease and the expectation. He likes the art and the mess. The catch of breath, the soft spread of lips, the shift, and the yield. He likes losing himself in it. For a while, at least. And it’s not that he’s never kissed like he means it. It’s not that he’s never been kissed like he’s wanted. </p><p>But MacCready kisses like he’s trying to leave a mark. He kisses like he wants it to burn, like he wants to leave a memory branded into the swell of Deacon’s lips. Maybe it’s just that. He kisses like he wants to be remembered.</p><p>Like Deacon could forget.</p><p>He leaves Deacon’s lips tingling as he pulls Deacon’s bowtie free, tossing it after the blazer. He pops the first button of Deacon’s shirt and leans in to leave a wet kiss above the collar of Deacon’s undershirt. Deacon tips his head back against the door and gasps. He feels MacCready smile against his throat and drag his lips higher, not quite kissing, just trailing them along the skin while his hand trails down Deacon’s chest, loosening buttons as he goes. Deacon fights through the way the feeling fogs over him to tug MacCready’s undershirt free of his belt. He rucks it high under the loose bulk of the button-up, until his fingertips meet skin. A sharp intake of breath strikes cold against his neck just as his own shirt drops open at his waist. </p><p>Once his hand slips under, he grazes his nails across the small of MacCready’s back, just enough pressure to feel the tips. He grunts out a strangled laugh when it makes MacCready’s hips snap forward. Still, Deacon shifts his legs open, and he lets MacCready’s thigh slide between them. Through the stiff fabric of their slacks, Deacon feels his cock stirring, filling, and feels the same hardness pressing back at MacCready’s thigh. Deacon rolls his hips forward in a short, teasing circle, and MacCready groans in his ear and bites the hinge of his jaw for it. </p><p>“God, I missed you,” Deacon chokes out, hands tightening around MacCready’s back. He rolls his hips again. </p><p>MacCready’s hand leaves his jaw to smack against the door next to Deacon’s ear, a desperate bid for balance as he thrusts back into the friction. He pulls back to look at Deacon, eyes lidded, lips parting. </p><p>“Never stopped thinking about you,” he whispers back. </p><p>Deacon sinks forward and kisses him again, collecting every shaky breath MacCready draws on his tongue while he slowly ruts himself against MacCready’s thigh. MacCready’s stubble pricks at his lips, his chin. MacCready’s other hand presses to the door, boxing Deacon in even as he arches away from it to press closer. </p><p>Finally, when the friction starts to feel frantic, Deacon slips his hands down to the clasp of MacCready’s belt. MacCready pulls out of the kiss with a parting swipe of his tongue against the roof of Deacon’s mouth. They’re nearly gasping against each other as MacCready keeps their faces leaned close, their noses brushing together. </p><p>“I watched the door. Every night,” Deacon tells him as he flicks the clasp free and pulls the belt through the loops. He flings it to land somewhere behind them, his lips nearly touching MacCready’s as he adds, “I knew you were long gone, I knew, but I—”</p><p>“Deacon.” His hand finds Deacon’s jaw again. He kisses him, softer this time. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t—”</p><p>Deacon seals their mouths together. They get lost there a moment, in long slides of lips that leave Deacon’s hands shaking as they curl back under MacCready’s shirt. </p><p>“Just wanted you close,” MacCready breathes out against his jaw. He shifts his weight where one hand still balances him against the door, and drags the other down Deacon’s chest, warm through the thin cotton of the undershirt. He starts to tug on Deacon’s belt in return. “Couldn’t leave, even if you never…” </p><p>He grits out another growl and abandons the words, kissing the rest of it into Deacon’s neck. Deacon’s belt flops loose and MacCready keeps going, opening his pants and pushing them apart until he can slip a hand into Deacon’s briefs. A groan tears out of Deacon’s throat as MacCready’s fingers find him and tease along the length of him. He feels himself twitch, and MacCready smothers a laugh into his shoulder. </p><p>“Bobby,” Deacon rasps. </p><p>MacCready leaves a kiss under Deacon’s jaw and slips his hand back out. Then he sinks to his knees.</p><p>He looks up at Deacon from the floor as he slides his hands up Deacon’s thighs and tugs his slacks lower on his hips. Then he pulls down the waistband of Deacon’s briefs again, this time far enough to bare his cock to the air. MacCready leans forward, nosing gently at the base, trailing feather-light kisses up the shaft. Deacon rests a shaky hand on MacCready’s cheek, and pulls his own undershirt up to his stomach with the other, his belt clasp clinking with the movement. </p><p>MacCready runs his tongue along the head of Deacon’s dick, flicking it against the slit before sucking it into his mouth. Deacon can feel the flex of MacCready’s cheek where his thumb rests, and it sends a shudder through him, that strange, erotic stretch. MacCready watches him all the while with the same sharp gaze that pinned Deacon in the booth, that caught him in the mirror. Was it really only hours ago? He’d woken up this morning believing MacCready somewhere far beyond his reach. That he’d never have this again, never feel this again. </p><p>MacCready’s head sinks forward, letting more of Deacon in, bathing the underside of Deacon’s cock in the wet warmth of his tongue. Deacon’s hand slides further back and into MacCready’s hair. He can feel the remnants of the product in it, waxy against his fingertips. He just buries them deeper, rubbing idle half-circles against MacCready’s scalp as MacCready pulls back and then surges forward again, his tongue swirling as he goes. </p><p>“God, Bobby,” Deacon groans. “That feels… <i>god</i>.” </p><p>MacCready watches him a moment longer. Then he parts his knees on the floor, tightens his grip on Deacon’s thighs, and works his jaw open wider. And then, he puts his back into it. </p><p>Deacon’s head slams back against the door. The obscene sound of MacCready’s mouth, wet and slick and relentless, leaves Deacon shivering with arousal. He fights the instinct to thrust into the heat of it, and lets MacCready hold him where he wants him as he picks up the pace, bobbing his head.</p><p>“Jesus,” Deacon says. His free hand scrabbles for purchase against the door. The pleasure tightens in his belly, warm and spreading out across his skin, fever-quick. When it grows too much, too close, he grabs a handful of MacCready’s hair and pulls him back, slamming his hips backward into the door as he does to pull free. MacCready gasps and coughs, his eyes shooting up to catch Deacon’s again. They’re hazy, and dark, and he looks up with spit wetting his chin and dampening the stubble around his lips. It does nothing to help Deacon catch his breath. </p><p>“What — why’d you —?” MacCready gestures vaguely to finish the thought. </p><p>Deacon lets go of his hair and cups his jaw instead, trailing his thumb over MacCready’s lips. His voice drops low enough to scrape in his throat as he says, “I want more than this.” </p><p>MacCready’s gaze sharpens again. His lips part beneath Deacon’s thumb, and he scrapes his teeth gently over the pad of it. Then he whispers a single word, his lips pressed to Deacon’s skin. “Anything.” </p><p>Deacon strokes over his upper lip, letting the whiskers prick at the tip of his thumb. Then he pulls away and holds the hand out instead. MacCready smirks up at him and takes it. Deacon pulls him up and in again, their hips colliding, trapping Deacon’s cock between their stomachs. He steals another kiss, dipping his tongue into MacCready’s mouth to taste himself there, and pushes off the door.</p><p>His pants slide loose as he walks MacCready backward, and he lets them pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, and his shoes, without breaking the kiss. Then he starts shouldering out of his shirt. They leave a trail of clothes down the hall, past the kitchen, and into the bedroom, where the door’s still hanging open. By the time Deacon pushes MacCready down onto the unmade sheets, they’re both naked, and the press of skin as Deacon sinks his weight down between MacCready’s thighs makes them both gasp out of the kiss. </p><p>God, he’s thought of this so often it feels like a memory. This rumpled, perfect bed, striped with streetlight where it slips between the blinds. These thin-skinned pillows and their wrinkled cases, cool under his fingers when he drags them closer and lays MacCready back. God, MacCready. Deacon’s fingers still fit the divots of his ribs. He still knows the pattern of freckles scattered faint and small across MacCready’s shoulders. Still burns for the glint in his eyes. </p><p>“I missed you,” Deacon says again between the kisses his sips from MacCready’s lips. </p><p>“Missed you too,” MacCready breathes, leaning into every one. </p><p>“What do you want?” Deacon noses along his cheek, idly circling his hips just to brush their cocks together and make MacCready suck in a sharp breath. </p><p>“Oh god.” MacCready tips his head back. “You sounded like — <i>unh</i> — you had some ideas.”</p><p>Deacon smiles against his cheek, nuzzling down until he can catch MacCready’s earlobe between his lips. “Let me fuck you.” </p><p>MacCready groans out, “Yes, <i>god</i>—” and Deacon swallows the rest in a lingering, messy kiss. </p><p>Deacon opens him up slow, slick fingers spreading and crooking as Deacon presses up against MacCready’s side. He keeps one thigh hooked over MacCready’s, holding him open, and watches his face, watches the way his brow creases up and then smooths. His lips fall open on a moan. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut until Deacon can’t help himself and brushes a kiss between his brows. Then they slide back open and fix on Deacon’s, fluttering a little when Deacon’s fingers curl into a good spot, but holding. He reaches up, pressing his palm under Deacon’s ear. Deacon leans into the touch, swallowing against a swell of feeling that sticks in his throat.</p><p>“Deacon, I—”</p><p>MacCready chokes off into another gasp. His dick twitches where it lays, heavy and red, against his stomach. Deacon ducks his chin, pressing a kiss against MacCready’s wrist. </p><p>“—need you,” MacCready finally says. </p><p>Deacon’s not going to last. He knows it before he’s sliding home, and god, isn’t that a word for it. It echoes in his head like a thunderclap. MacCready’s thighs curl around Deacon’s hips, hooking over them, drawing Deacon in deeper. Deacon leans heavily on the arm he plants into the bed next to MacCready’s head. MacCready slides his hand up the column of it to hook over Deacon’s shoulder. His other hand bunches into the sheets below him. There’s no way he can’t feel how much Deacon’s shaking above him. </p><p>When Deacon finally sinks all the way inside him, MacCready leans up, pressing their foreheads together as Deacon catches his breath. The heat, the pressure, the perfect, tight slide — it’s overwhelming. MacCready lets go of the sheets to grip the back of Deacon’s neck as they lean close together. </p><p>“Has it been awhile?” MacCready asks quietly. Deacon almost doesn’t understand the question. Then it clicks. </p><p>“There hasn’t been — anyone — not since you,” Deacon says. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Where would anyone else fit when his heart was still so full of this man? </p><p>MacCready lets out a shaky breath. “Me neither. I didn’t… I couldn’t… want anyone else.”</p><p>“Just you,” Deacon whispers, nodding against him. He slowly slides his hips back. MacCready kisses him again, just the soft press of lips, but Deacon feels it burning its way through his chest. He thrusts forward again, moaning quietly into the kiss. </p><p>He doesn’t rush it. The feeling is too strong, too fierce and full, and it’ll pull him under in moments if he lets it. So he lets it hold him instead, hardly even finding a rhythm that isn’t just instinct, just chasing the feeling, just floating in it. Part of him wonders how long he could hold the two of them here, on the slow climb to pleasure, wrapped into each other. He wonders how long he could let himself forget everything else. </p><p>But finally, MacCready starts rolling his hips up to meet each slow thrust. His calves dig harder into the back of Deacon’s thighs, restless and shifting. Deacon takes the hint. He thrusts a little harder, a little faster, and MacCready drops his head back against the pillow. His cock is a hot, hard line against Deacon’s stomach, and Deacon feels MacCready’s hips shifting, angling into the friction of Deacon’s skin to ease the ache of it. </p><p>Finally, Deacon reaches down, and curls his fist around it. He swipes his thumb over the leaking tip, and moves to change the angle of his thrusts. MacCready cries out. His fingers clamp tight to Deacon’s shoulder, and Deacon’s forehead slips down to rest against his temple. Deacon closes his eyes, and works his fist in time to the hitched sound of MacCready’s panting. Pleasure pools low in his abdomen again, coiling tighter and tighter as he pushes himself deep into the heat of MacCready’s body.</p><p>“I’m so close, Bobby,” Deacon rasps. MacCready nods, tightening his legs around Deacon’s waist to keep him buried. </p><p>Deacon pulls back to glance down at MacCready’s leg and then back up to his face. “You’re sure? You want me to—?”</p><p>“I want you to,” MacCready says. Deacon him feels him start to tremble, a little.  “Don’t stop. Don’t—”</p><p>MacCready comes with another gasp, shaking apart as Deacon strokes him through it. Deacon follows a few heavy thrusts later, burying his face in MacCready’s neck. </p><p>It’s a long few minutes before Deacon comes back to himself. He slowly becomes aware of MacCready’s hands on the back of his neck, on his shoulders, stroking gently over the skin. When he can feel his body in more than tingling pieces, he turns his head, kissing MacCready’s collarbone. </p><p>He knows they need to clean up, that he needs to… find his clothes, pull them back on. Find the door. Open it. Close it again. Instead of doing any of those things, he runs a hand across MacCready’s stomach to rest at his side. </p><p>MacCready traces the curve of Deacon’s shoulder. “You can stay. You know, if you… want.” </p><p>Deacon closes his eyes. Softly, he says, “Bobby…”</p><p>MacCready clears his throat. “Or, uh. Or not. You—”</p><p>Deacon shifts until he can get an elbow beneath him. MacCready takes it as a hint to pull away, but Deacon grabs his hip to still him. “Bobby, wait, I — wait.”</p><p>“It’s okay, Dee, I get it —”</p><p>“No, you don’t.” </p><p>Deacon closes his eyes. He can feel the warmth of MacCready’s body filling him at every point they touch. And he doesn’t want to let it go. He’d thought, three months ago, with screams still echoing his ears and blood flecked on his shoes, that it was the only way. The only option. If Deacon didn’t run fast enough next time, if they finally see through the disguise, at least MacCready would be safe.</p><p>And Deacon would be alone. And miserable. And MacCready’s life is worth that, of course it’s worth that, but… maybe… maybe that isn’t… maybe it doesn’t have to be the only choice.</p><p>He opens his eyes again. “Listen, I — I don’t know how to have this and be… what I am.” He looks up, and finds MacCready already looking back, like he’s bracing for a blow. Deacon swallows. “But I regretted every day I didn’t get the chance to try.” </p><p>Deacon runs his thumb over a scar on MacCready’s rib, forcing himself not to look away. MacCready slowly moves his hand to cradle Deacon’s jaw. He searches Deacon’s face. </p><p>“You have to know I’m in love with you,” he whispers, “before you — because I — I need you to be sure this is what you want.” </p><p>“I think that’s the only thing I am sure of,” Deacon says, surprising himself at the way he doesn’t hesitate. He leans down and presses a kiss to MacCready’s lips, firm and warm. “I’m in love with you, too. I was in love with you then. I… we’ll… we can figure out the rest.” </p><p>MacCready looks up at him. A smile starts in the corner of his mouth, spreading like a sunrise over his face. “Okay.” </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>MacCready pulls him down into another kiss.</p><p>In the morning, Deacon will walk to the church in MacCready’s clothes, smelling like coffee and runny eggs. He’ll leave the rumpled rose on his blazer next to MacCready’s hat, on the table by the door. He’ll find a new one waiting for him on his dressing table that night. </p><p>In the morning, he’ll pull MacCready into his arms, over his lap, against his chest. He’ll say it again, and again. He’ll leave a bruise on MacCready’s shoulder and kiss the ones on his hips. He’ll let himself be held.</p><p>In the morning, he’ll make a promise. One he’s going to keep. </p><p>But for now, he wraps his arms around MacCready’s back, and curls his foot under MacCready’s calf. He opens his mouth when MacCready’s lips press gently to his. There’s love in the way MacCready’s fingers spread on his cheek, the way Deacon’s fingers trace MacCready’s spine in answer. Maybe there always has been. So Deacon pulls him in tighter, and stays.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1) Reader's choice what the Institute is actually up to because I'm going to confess to you that what I wrote here is as far as I thought it through. Let's be real dear friends, I was just here for the romance. </p><p>2) One of my beta's notes was "You really just said 'I'm gonna make the horniest clothing choices I can.'" And: yes. Yes I did.</p><p>3) In case you're wondering where Duncan is: he's in Diamond City (that being a real city in this AU) but still in the hospital, getting treatments. I envisioned it more as treatment over time that Mac was finally able to afford with the lawsuit money rather than as a one time cure-all. </p><p>Come say hi on twitter @galaxiesgone or on tumblr @electricshoebox.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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